


hit-me-with-your-best-shot.mp3

by carrionkid



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 01:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18436568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: take a shot every time i reference robocop OR the saw franchise and hope you don't die. the nichest of the niche. deadpool and bullseye meet for the first time because they've both been hired to take out the same mark--He should’ve known she was trouble as soon as she walked in. Looked like the kind of woman people started wars over and the devilish smile on that angel’s face said she knew it. Stood in his doorway, a dame with legs as long as the night is dark and a body to match.Wait, no, he’s having too much fun with this. He’s gotta keep it straight for the record. Can’t go too wild until the movie deal goes through!In all actuality, she was a gold-digger soccer mom who approached him in the middle of Whole Foods to see about whacking her rich-ass husband off.





	hit-me-with-your-best-shot.mp3

**Author's Note:**

> THE REVIEWS ARE IN:  
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He should’ve known she was trouble as soon as she walked in. Looked like the kind of woman people started wars over and the devilish smile on that angel’s face said she knew it. Stood in his doorway, a dame with legs as long as the night is dark and a body to match.

 

Wait, no, he’s having too much fun with this. He’s gotta keep it straight for the record. Can’t go too wild until the movie deal goes through!

 

In all actuality, she was a gold-digger soccer mom who approached him in the middle of Whole Foods to see about whacking her rich-ass husband off.

 

Now, usually he’d find anyone who can recognize him out of costume more than a little bit sus, but that’s no way to get the plot rolling so he just ended up kind of pissed that she was ruining his day off.

 

 _‘Like, as a sex thing?’_ He’d said. _‘Because I think the co-op trying to kickstart Free Love Two: Electric Boogaloo put up an advertisement on the bulletin board. My threesome days are long gone.’_

 

And then she punched him.

 

And after she punched him, she opened up her purse to show off a nice stack of benjamins, and a hot pink tube of mace.

 

 _‘They’re scamming you, Karen,’_ he wanted to say, _‘Girl power mace just costs more than regular mace!’_

 

But he didn’t.

 

Instead, he said, _‘Ohhhh, that kind of whacking off. What, is the old ‘slipping some cyanide in the organic arugula lentil soup’ trick not working?’_

 

And then she punched him _again._

 

 _‘Alright, alright.’_ He’d said. _‘I’ll take the job.’_

 

Mostly because he wanted her to leave him alone.

 

Fucking bougie assholes, always think you should go the extra mile on your day off when days off are supposed to be about chugging Mojito-In-A-Bags back to back with the desperation of having just finished a T-Ball game and you’re the first kid to the capri-sun cooler.

 

Which is how he ended up here, in the middle of some hot ticket vacation destination. Call your travel agent today! See the sights! Meet the locals! Be an engine of gentrification!

 

Orrrrrrrrrr just become a merc and get paid to ruin vacations since you don’t ever get to have any fun.

 

That’s a lie, he has plenty of fun. But not ‘railing coke in a floating hotel off the coast of the Barbados’ fun. Not after the last time!

 

Nope, mercs never get to stay in the floating hotels. They end up in the shithole apartments or fleabag motels, both of which are wayyyy less fun when you’re in them instead of watching a movie where the main character is in them.

 

Anyway, the rich-ass husband who needs whacking off (but not _that kind_ of whacking off) hasn’t come up for air in a couple of days. It’s annoying, but not so annoying he’s ready to break into the floating hotel to make sure he hasn’t OD’d and screwed him out of a paycheck.

 

Now he might just be crazy, or the fillings in his teeth are picking up radio signals, but he’s pretty sure today feels like a romcom.

 

Which is pretty par for the course but nothing romcom-y has happened so far. Usually the universe holds off at least until he tactfully trips into someone’s arms or hears the tell-tale sound of a grindr notification before going full genre trappings.

 

It’s probably just all the talk of whacking someone off (but not _that kind_ of whacking off. unfortunately) that’s making him go stir crazy.

 

What he really needs is a nice fat paycheck and then a motherfucking vacay. But he’ll settle for going to check on Mr. Rich-Ass Husband because that’s gonna bring him one step closer to hitting paydirt.

 

He usually keeps his mask on while he’s working, like a customer service voice and a security blanket all rolled into one. It’s comfortably uncomfortable and he thinks it’s pretty sexy being an international man of mystery. Unfortunately, it’s also pretty fucking hot being an international man of mystery, especially when he’s running around in lycra and leather in the fucking Barbados.

 

So he takes up residence in one of the wildly artificial palm trees (It’s got built in speakers, for fuck’s sake!) and decides to play the waiting game. Which is usually always ‘I Spy’ but alone and sometimes solitaire.

 

It’s soooooo boring that he’s about to start pretending to crush tourists like ants, even has one eye shut and his thumb and pointer finger primed and ready to go for pretending he’s the newest kaiju scourge upon the world, here to warn the rich elites of the Barbados about pollution or humanity’s hubris or something.

 

And he’d be having a grand ol’ time doing just that but he just had to go and notice the person on the roof. Now he doesn’t exactly consider himself a pessimist or a cynic or one of those people who gets caught up in circlejerk subreddits about how the world is out to get them but something about the guy on the roof makes his Mental Health Crisis spidey senses tingle.

 

He’s in all black, even down to the stupid beanie he’s wearing, which might make him the only person on this tropical island who’s having even less fun than Wade is. And he’s sitting right on the edge just kind of kicking his legs back and forth, flicking what looks like gravel down at passersby.

 

And then he smiles, but only halfway. Like he’s trying to be a Bond villain; he’s definitely weedy enough to look the part.

 

Wade’s eyes follow what would be a perfectly dotted beeline in any cartoon from the guy on the roof’s hands down to tourist who’s rubbing her shoulder and yelling at the guy next to her for snapping her bikini strap.

 

All in all, he looks pretty fucking bored, which either means he’s the depressed teenage protagonist of an alternative direct to video flick with a soundtrack by Not The All American Rejects But Auditorily Identical Songs OR he’s another merc. And since he looks like he’s at least old enough to buy booze from Kroger and not get carded, Wade would say it’s the latter.

 

And since this weirdo looks like he probably still has a Blockbuster membership card on his keychain, he’s probably not JUST another merc, but also competition. Maybe he’s after another mark, but that rarely makes for an interesting story. Two mercs passing each other by like ships in the night, never to meet again. It’s boooooring as all get out.

 

And the thing about competition is, two mercs plus one paycheck equals somebody getting stood up on prom night. Not that he ever went to prom, but he imagines it’s just like that. Even down to the blood and murder! After all, he’s seen Carrie upwards of five times.

 

Now, because God decided to put the brain of an improv comedian into the body of an unkillable morally grey sex machine, he starts humming the pink panther theme. And then humming turns into whistling, and before you know it, the competition’s looking over at him.

 

He’s been spotted! ABORT MISSION! ABORT MISSION!

 

He shakes a fist at the heavens, cursing his compulsion to fall into genre trappings and/or do the funniest thing possible in a given situation at the cost of his advantage.

 

And then the competition drags his finger across his throat, a universal sign for ‘your goose is cooked, buster. you’re about to be sleepin’ with the fishes’.

 

But he’s stupid and really seriously in need of a career change, or at least a side stint at a failing comedy club, so he mouths, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

 

“Fuck off,” the competition mouths back.

 

So he holds up his rifle and grins, “Bet mine’s bigger.”

 

The universe’s cosmic laugh track kicks in right as the world goes black.

 

* * *

 

He comes back to life when it's dark out, caught on the branches of the fake as shit palm tree so he's hanging by his feet. Look ma! I finally made it! I'm an extra from Predator!

 

Something's befuckened because his brain feels like Jell-O. Lemon Jell-O, the worst kind. So he starts checking his many, many pouches. (Who thought that was a good idea?)

 

But today seems to be the day of bad ideas because all that ends up happening is most of his many trading cards, heroclix, arcade tickets, and bullets end up falling to the ground because he is hanging upside down.

 

The one thing he knows is that his rifle is gone and he's gonna get his Baby back even if he has to go all John Wick on everyone on this godforsaken island's ass to do it. He just had her painted!

 

He sighs dramatically, acting out the comedy of his life, known as Wade's World, to an audience of one, a cruel God who loves slapstick. It's not even the best kind of comedy!

 

When he buries his head in his hand, he ends up just shoving the knife further into his brain.

 

Of course his head feels like Jell-O, the knife is the broccoli an unhinged 50s housewife put in there to cover the whole weirdly jiggly food pyramid.

 

Okay, fuck. He has to stick on one thought, just long enough that he can get out of this tricky situation. Usually he likes to keep things high stakes and sexy by jumping from thought to thought so fast the best telepaths can't even keep up with him, but right now it feels like he's being liquefied. There's no hangover quite like dying and coming back.

 

But most people aren't good enough to kill him. It never sticks but anyone who can take him out is a tad more than just _competition._

 

He hopes his left hand will cooperate because when he stuck the knife in further, his right hand went limp, hanging uselessly over his head. He's gotta switch hands now and then, better start some strength building exercises as soon as he gets back to the motel, if you know what I mean…

 

(Cue laugh track. He's not even feeling the joke. He's just going through the script.)

 

So he grabs onto the knife as tight as he can and pulls like an overly competitive kid at summer camp about to ruin tug of war. It's in there deep, and his face is all warm with fresh blood. The third try's the charm because it finally comes out of his head with a squelch that would earn a horror movie an R rating automatically.

 

“I'm keeping the knife, you fuck! That's what you get for taking Baby!”

 

He probably shouldn't be shouting exposition where someone might hear him, but he's pissed off and a little bit woozy.

 

And then he jackknifes up to start cutting at plastic palm leaves until he can get out of this fucking tree. Except his brain hasn't grown back enough to let him use his right arm yet and he's thinking even LESS efficiently than usual so he ends up getting fucked hard by Mr. Gravity himself. The crack he hears when he hits the ground makes him wince but he can't even feel whatever happened to him.

 

Someone's wandered off from the party, stumbling like the whole world's become a waterbed, “Hoooolyyyy fuck, you good?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, move along, peanut gallery.”

 

The partygoer makes the universal hand signal for ROCK ON, DUUUDE, and moves along.

 

Suddenly spending three weeks in a fleabag motel doesn't seem so bad. After all, he could be spending the night on the ground trying to unbreak his legs and regrow his brain. It's not like he needs a brain anyway! He never seems to use it!

 

At least he won't have to worry too much about the competition, most people only need to be killed once so he'll have some time to breathe and whack off this rich ass husband. He better be a fucking gazillionaire otherwise this wouldn't be worth it. He’s never had this much trouble with a job that should be this fucking simple.

 

He tries, he really DOES, to keep being upbeat and hitting all the tropes he’s supposed to but there are some days where he just can’t take what the world’s doing to him. It’s time for a genre switch, he thinks.

 

* * *

 

The sun is just starting to rise when he’s finally done stewing in his anger AND his blood and he decides to do the walk of shame home. Everyone’s blitzed and it’s a vacation island, nobody’s gonna look twice at the mask and he’s staggering around like he’s just as drunk as the rest of them. If his super duper high powered metabolism would let him get drunk in situations that aren’t funny or plot convenient, he’d be on his way to getting white-girl wasted right now.

 

Back at the motel, he flops facedown on the bed and screams into the pillow. He’s being pissy and immature, not that he isn’t always immature but it’s usually more endearing than going full tween coming of age movie. It feels like he should be screaming something along the lines of YOU’RE NOT MY REAL MOM, SHARON, YOU JUST MARRIED MY DAD AND MY REAL MOM, who tragically died in a car accident before the movie started, WOULD’VE LET ME OUT ON MY BAD BOY BOYFRIEND’S MOTORCYCLE.

 

There’s always tomorrow. Another day, another murder. Hopefully he won’t be the one getting murdered this time.

 

Yeah, there’s a distinct possibility that the mark might have already been un-alived, but even then, he’s gonna hunt down the competition The Most Dangerous Game style and loot the corpse.

 

He doesn’t want to go full horror movie, that’s too edgy. He could go spy-flick, but he left his tuxedo at the dry cleaners. But comedy doesn’t seem to be getting him anywhere. He’s gotta get mean. He’s gotta fight dirty.

 

So he’s breaking his cardinal rule of playing Tom and Jerry with a target that doesn’t even know they’re Jerry. He’s going into the mark’s hideout to do some snooping behind enemy lines.

 

He doesn’t usually bring civvies along on a job, not that he’s self conscious or anything because he’s sexy AND he knows it, but he also doesn’t make a habit of just walking around out in public without the suit on. He’s still got a few with him, just in case anyone ends up breaking in and ransacking his room because there’s something hilarious about a ‘sun’s out, guns out’ tank, pastel frat boy shorts, and a shitload of ammo in a beat up suitcase.

 

The cherry on top of the sundae that is his look is the bucket hat embroidered with ‘Sun, Sea, & Smirnoff’ he grabs from one of the many gift shops around the motel. Wade sticks out like a sore thumb, but that’s the most efficient kind of disguise.

 

Getting into the lobby is easy, no drama at all which is almost kind of disappointing now that he’s got his head back in the game. The people at check-in are dressed in aloha button-ups that really look gaudy compared to the whole upscale look of the fucking floating hotel for rich people.

 

“Good morning, sir! What can I do for you today?”

 

The receptionist looks up from her computer and just sort of lets her mouth open and shut like a singing trout with almost completely dead batteries. It happens a lot, always the pause, always the look. Kids are more fun because they’ve got the guts to ask if he took a dip in toxic waste like the guy at the end of Robocop. Adults just stare all while acting like they absolutely ARE NOT staring, how could you think they’d do something like that!!!

 

“That’s why you wear sunscreen,” he says, completely deadpan because it’s barely fun anymore, “I’m a walking PSA now.”

 

“Oh,” she stumbles, but gets right back up and keeps on going, “What can I do for you today?”

 

He leans against the counter, chin resting against the palm of his hand, and channels his inner soccer mom, “I was looking to see if you had any vacancies here, because, uh, funny story but the hotel I’m staying in has _seriously_ dropped the ball on hospitality and making me feel welcome. Sure, the complimentary minibar and prime beach real-estate are to die for, but _someone_ on the staff decided I might scare the children if I’m lounging around and that someone just guaranteed their hotel a one star Yelp review.”

 

“Well, uh, sir,” the receptionist tugs at her collar a little bit, he might getting too into this role, “This is one of our busiest seasons and almost everyone else booked in advance. I can check the system for any open rooms but it’s really not likely we’d have one.”

 

He rolls his eyes, ready to go in for the kill.

 

But speaking of going in for the kill, he’s part way through executing the perfect sarcastic eye roll when he realizes that the competition is up in the rafters.

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

 

“There’s no need to get _rude,_ sir! This isn’t a convenient request!”

 

It’s a valiant effort but she kind of trips over her words, like she’s not used to being assertive. If it was the right time he’d give her a pep-talk about taking shit from nobody, least of all soccer moms who want to speak to a manager. Right now, he’s too busy being laser focused on the fact that the competition is right above Wade’s now knife-free head.

 

The lobby is big, outdoorsy looking, and full of glass to give you the illusion of living in a magazine and the rafters are thick beams of wood with lots of open space. And right up in those big ass rafters is the competition and he’s not on the prowl to kill Wade a second time, no, it looks like he’s… Asleep?

 

His eyes are closed, back against the wall, sleeping like a little murder angel. There’s a bag resting on his lap, clutching onto it for dear life even while he’s passed the fuck out, and balanced at his feet is Baby. Wade bets this fucker didn’t even bother polishing her.

 

“Yep! You’re right! Sorry for the trouble, I have to go,” he smiles, waves, and gets the fuck out of there.

 

Outside of the hotel, he crosses his arms and scowls. _So that's how it's gonna be, huh?_

 

But it isn't a total loss because the rich ass husband who needs whacking off (but not _that_ kind of whacking off) has finally come up for air. He looks disheveled, dazed in a way that means you're either in an action movie and a bomb just went off nearby and now the ear ringing sound effect is playing at full volume OR you're supremely hungover.

 

Now it's too easy to kill him right here. Something would fuck him over because God cursed him to live on Roger Rabbit rules. Which is nowhere near as fun as it sounds and is, in fact, kind of awful. But there's no narrative rule against _talking_ to him.

 

So he slips into a movie's idea of an Australian accent and staggers up to the mark, “Oi, y'good mate?”

 

Mr. Rich Ass Husband just groans so he throws an arm over his shoulder and laughs.

 

“Y'only feel like a kangaroo's arsehole because you're comin’ down,” okay, maybe he needs to tone down the accent a bit, “But what say we got carry on the party. It's five o'clock somewhere, isn't it? I can show you a good time.”

 

“I have a _wife,”_ Mr. Rich Ass Husband looks disgusted, even shoves him away.

 

 _‘You have a wife that wants you dead, dipshit.’_ He wants to say, _'And I'm an EXCELLENT lover.’_

 

“Oi, calm your tits. 'M not askin’ if you wanna fuck, I'm askin’ if ya want some ketamine.”

 

“Yeah alright. No funny business, though.”

 

He doesn't actually have any ketamine back at the motel, but this loser should be dead before he ever finds that out and then Wade can go buy some with his brand spankin’ new paycheck. He keeps rambling, stringing the rich ass husband along but he's pretty sure he had him at 'free ketamine’.

 

They're almost at the motel but because things have been going his way for once, the universe decides he needs a reminder that it's out to get him personally.

 

“HEY!” The husband stops, “THAT MAN STOLE MY WALLET!”

 

Now, Wade knows he didn't take the mark's wallet. That's stupid, you just take it after they're dead. And there are lots of pickpockets in a place like this, but it's too much of a coincidence so he scans the crowd.

 

_Can you find who took it? Look carefully!_

 

And just like a kid watching Dora, God doesn't answer.

 

_Good job! It's the competition! He took the wallet!_

 

And then he disappears into the brightly colored crowd, which should make him easy to find because he's in all black, but he's just gone. The husband bolts after him, too.

 

So this is what they’re doing. Some jackass fucking rookie thinks he can play Spy vs. Spy for funsies while the real mercs are trying to get a job done and done right. Well two can play at this game and he’s DEFINITELY way more familiar with Spy vs. Spy than the competition.

 

The rich ass husband might already be dead by the time he gets back in the game, but it’s gone from pleasure to business so he’s gonna go get the suit back on. It’s a matter of principle, not the fact that he’s more than a little bit squicked by the idea of the competition knowing what he looks like under the leather. Because he’s not. He’s not bothered by that at all.

 

So he jogs back to the motel and changes as fast as he can, which isn’t that easy when he’s trying to pull into a skin-tight supersuit at warp speed. But he manages to get dressed and ready to go, running along rooftops so he can well and truly get the drop on the competition in every sense of the word.

 

“Now if I stole somebody’s wallet to lure them away to an isolated location and kill them, where would I go?”

 

He asks the question aloud because all the internal narration must be getting boring for the viewers at home, especially because there aren’t any commercial breaks, no matter how many times he gets the Shirley Temple Box Set commercial stuck in his head.

 

He already kind of knows the answer but it’s simple narrative courtesy to draw some things out and give some exposition. He’d go to the boardwalk, because it’s the best setting for a murder. Blood is always so much more dramatic when it splatters on the sand, preferably in slo-mo.

 

Sometimes he forgets that not everyone has a brain hard-wired for storytelling because he runs right past the competition and the rich ass husband. It doesn’t sink in until he’s a block away, but once he realizes what he’s done, he stops in place. And then he makes a record scratch noise, followed by a tape rewinding noise, but he doesn’t bother trying to run backwards for the full effect because he’s a serious legitimate professional.

 

So he backtracks in the normal (and boring) way, retracing his steps forward until he can see what the situation is between the competition and the mark. Wade’s starting to think the rookie might be in over his head because it looks like the rich ass husband’s got him backed into a corner and not the other way around. The competition has his back against the dead end of the alleyway.

 

“Give me my wallet back and nobody gets hurt,” the rich ass husband says, like he’s some kind of bank robber.

 

“Fuck you,” the competition gives him a look like ‘are you serious?’, “Finders keepers.”

 

And then the rich ass husband pulls a gun out of his waistband. It’s not that impressive, just a little snub-nose that he probably bought all while telling himself that size doesn’t matter, the only thing that matters is the shooting power. Wait a sec. He might’ve just cracked the code on why this soccer mom wants him whacked off.

 

He'll step in before it goes fully south since apparently this guy thinks he's the Wolf of fucking Wall Street and chances are the rookie won't get better if he dies. The unconcerned look on his face says he's either never been shot or he's been shot too many times to care.

 

The rich ass husband cocks the gun and Wade's about to intervene and save this dumbass but then the rookie fucking chucks the wallet at the mark.

 

For a second his heart swells with joy at the possibility of someone else living on the same cartoon logic as he is because the wallet sails absolutely perfectly into the rich ass husband's forehead and he crumples to the ground. If this was a comic book, there'd be some kind of great sound effect, like KA-WHACK or BA-THUNK.

 

But the competition doesn't stick around to finish the job. Nope, he just scampers up the side of a building like he thinks he's a fucking xenomorph.

 

It's the number one rule to not leave an unconscious mark unattended but apparently nobody bothered to tell that to the rookie.

 

He'd be a bad sport if he took advantage of this situation, but it's such a perfect opportunity. Almost _too_ perfect, so he has a feeling the audience knows something he doesn't.

 

He'd appreciate a fucking heads up but noooooo, he couldn't get born into a text based adventure game, he had to get born into a real world with free will… Allegedly.

 

“Can you _stop?”_

 

He turns around quick, hand on the handle of his knife, people only get the drop on him when he's doing an internal monologue.

 

The rookie’s sitting up on the electrical box, hunched over and looking just as emo as the all black get up would suggest he is.

 

“I'm trying to _work.”_

 

That's it, no 'oh my God, how are you ALIVE'-s or 'oh fuck, it's the ghost of mercenaries past'-ing. He's more than a little bit flabbergasted.

 

And then the competition huffs, crosses his arms, and mutters under his breath, “Dunno what's the fucking point of confronting them when it doesn't do jack shit.”

 

“Oh my _God,”_ Wade says and pretends he doesn't notice the way the competition totally doesn't flinch, “You think I'm a hallucination?”

 

 _Now_ the competition looks like he's seen a ghost.

 

“I mean I'm _not_ , at least, I don't think I am,” he laughs stiffly and whether or not he pinches himself to make sure is between himself, the competition, and God, “It's cool, I mean, I'm--”

 

But the competition bolts before he can even finish the thought. And to top it all off, the mark's gone, too.

 

Maybe if he wasn’t in the middle of a gig that’s already dragged on 2 days longer than it should’ve, he’d be worried about how scared the competition looked. Maybe after this is all over and done with, they can sit down and have a talk. He doesn’t usually do serious but sometimes _someone’s_ gotta do it.

 

For now, he’s just going back to the motel to sulk. It’s been one strike after another and sooner or later someone’s gonna start thinking that he doesn’t even know how to play baseball and then all the other baseball teams will start taking _his_ games and eventually nobody will even want his trading card anymore. Wow. That metaphor got REALLY out of hand. And he’s _not_ worried; this is just embarrassing.

 

He’ll get the mark tomorrow, even if he has to bust into the rich ass husband’s hotel room like he’s the fucking Kool-Aid man.

 

And then he’ll get Baby back from the competition.

 

And then he’ll get his paycheck and go get wasted.

 

He’s visualizing his goals, he’s avoiding feedback loops of negative thoughts, and he’s _going_ to manifest desired outcomes through planning and positive thinking even if he has to kill everyone standing between himself and self-actualization. It’s called taking the hands on approach to DBT therapy and he really needs to patent it before Dr. Doom does and tries to sell it as ‘Doomalectical Behavior Therapy’.

 

Of course, he can only patent it if it works because he's not starting a multi-level marketing scheme. He's had yet to be on an even keel for more than a few months but any progress is good progress, probably.

 

* * *

 

Back at the hotel, he closes his eyes and centers himself, getting in a good mindset.

 

_Visualize your goals. How are you going to actualize them? How will you overcome negative thinking and destructive habits?_

 

He pictures shooting the rich ass husband in the face before the competition does. And then he pictures cheering and gloating and really driving home that he's the better merc. That's what you get for killing me, you fuck!

 

He doesn't really need to sleep since the universe cursed him with Wile E. Coyote style immortality but he's gotta admit that he really likes dreaming. Not _just_ the weird sex dreams.

 

So he passes out in the suit, one hand down his skin tight leather and Lycra pants because fuck you, it's _comfortable._ It's not weird unless you make it weird.

 

He dreams that he's in Inception which is more of a mindfuck than the movie ever was but he's also at least a little bit crazy in the clinical sense. Anyway, it's like 4am when he wakes up and starts gearing up. He checks over all the guns he still has with him and makes sure they're locked, loaded, and ready to go.

 

He decides he'll be a bit more subtle than busting in like the fucking Kool aid man, as funny as that would be. Nope, he just picks the lock on the rich ass husband's patio door. Stupid prick didn't even put a stick in the track to stop it from opening. It's almost funny how easy it is to slip in, shut the door behind him quietly, and take a seat in one of the uncomfortable decorative chairs.

 

He's sitting with his legs up over the arm of the chair and pulls a nail file out of one of his many pouches. Always carries one with him, not because his nails are long enough to need filing but because he's committed to the visual gag of sitting around aimlessly filing his nails like he isn't absolutely wearing gloves.

 

* * *

 

It's a long, boooring wait for the fucker to come out of the coma he drank himself into. The sun is already rising by the time the rich ass husband starts to wake up.

 

And then he bolts upright, holding onto his stupid little snub-nose, “Get out of here before I blow your head off!”

 

“Nyeh, what's up doc?” Wade says, still filing at his nails, he's on a bit of a loony toons kick right now.

 

“Wait… Are you the free ketamine guy?”

 

“Shame on you! You have to hit the buzzer before you answer! Have you _never_ played Jeopardy?”

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” The rich ass husband cocks the revolver but Wade’s got the feeling he really doesn’t have all that much practice using a gun, so he’s not too worried.

 

Instead, he just makes an obnoxiously loud buzzer noise, “INCORRECT! You have been _diiiiiiiiiisqualified!”_

 

And then he grabs the gun resting on his stomach, already loaded and safety off because fuck gun safety, it’s not like it’ll do any lasting damage if something goes wrong. He shoots the rich ass husband who needs whacking off (but not _that_ kind of whacking off) in the head before he can even get a final word in.

 

Then, he spins the gun on his fingers like he’s mother-fucking Robocop.

 

“That’s not Jeopardy.”

 

Wade stops dead in his tracks and trains his gun on the competition, now leaning back against the bathroom doorway, arms crossed as he scowls.

 

“You don’t get disqualified for wrong answers. That’s, like, fuckin’ Cash Cab.”

 

“Why the fuck do you think you can critique my quips? You couldn’t even kill this guy!”

 

The competition kicks the door frame, “I _could_ kill that guy.”

 

“Yeah, but you _didn’t.”_

 

Wade’s thinking he’s probably a few seconds away from getting another knife in the head, but the competition just grits his teeth and digs his nails into the meat of his arms.

 

“No hard feelings?” The competition doesn’t sound too enthusiastic, like a kid being nudged into apologizing for shoving little Timmy down the slide.

 

“Yeah, sure. It’s just a job.”

 

He gets up from the chair and flicks on the lights. Then, he snaps a few pics of the mark and debates drawing little X’s over his eyes before he sends it to the soccer mom. That might be going a bit too far, so he just heads onto the gross part. Which is trying to finger a gunshot wound as best as he can to get the fucking bullet out. Clients usually like when he goes all mafioso and drops the bullet that got the job done on their desk.

 

“What are you _doing?”_

 

The competition caught him in a truly bad moment, pointer and middle finger all the way into the fucker’s brainmatter.

 

“Fingering an entry wound. What about you?”

 

The competition gives him this weirdly questioning look like it wasn’t self explanatory enough, but he doesn’t look as disgusted as most people would so there might be some hope for him yet.

 

“Wanna go for drinks?” The competition asks, while he’s still two knuckles deep trying to get a hold on the fucking bullet, “Don’t answer yet.”

 

As if Wade could answer while doing this, that’s gotta be like 6th base at least.

 

“If you agree, you _are_ paying. Since you stole my paycheck.”

 

“Don’t get cocky, kid,” he mentally curses himself because he is NOT a Han Solo archetype, and _yet,_ “Not everyone’s gonna go easy on you.”

 

“I don’t need anyone to go easy on me,” the competition sounds _awfully_ defensive.

 

“Whatever you say, dude. But remember, only one of us in this room got the job done.”

 

“I woulda got the job done if you actually _died.”_

 

Whatever witty retort he was gonna make can wait because he’s finally got the stupid slippery bullet between his fingers. Wade pulls it out of what’s left of the rich ass husband’s forehead with an absolutely disgusting _squelch;_ it doesn’t even sound real, it just sounds like someone pulling the guts out of a pumpkin for a low budget film student torture porn movie.

 

And the competition’s finally lost his composure, it was really only a matter of time. He’s as sheet white and freaked looking as a kid who totally thought he could handle watching Saw 3D: The Final Chapter in theaters only to decide he would never pretend to be 18 again.

 

“I’m not trying to be a dick,” Wade wipes the bloody, mangled bullet on his sleeve until it’s clean enough to tuck into one of his pouches, “But you _seriously_ might want to reconsider careers.”

 

“Fuck off and _die_ ,” the rookie stammers out, “I just… Just have a _thing--”_

 

“A _thing?”_

 

You can’t tell, but he’s totally raising an eyebrow right now.

 

“A _thing_ about… _Y’know_.”

 

“No, I don’t?”

 

The rookie groans and drags his hands down his face, “You’re really gonna make me say it?”

 

“Oh, no, no, wait!” He’s definitely getting stabbed again, but his mouth moves faster than his brain, “Let me guess! You have a _thing_ about blood? Uhhhh, no, you have a _thing_ about guns? No, no, that can’t be it… You’ve got a _thing_ about _men?”_

 

“Fuck, just forget about it.”

 

He might’ve gone a bit too far; he’s never been great at knowing where the line is, like how sitcoms without the laugh-track just sound like examples from an anti-bullying PSA.

 

“Okay, look, I’m sorry. Do you still want to get a drink?”

 

“Yeah, I guess.”

 

“Okay, okay, cool, lemme just finish this,” he types out ‘guess who just got whacked off <3’ and sends the picture over to the contact in his phone labelled ‘murder soccer mom #3’, “Annnnnnd we should get booze money in the bank account in 2 to 7 business days.”

 

“I am _not_ hanging around here for a week so I can get a drink with you,” the competition scowls.

 

“Oh come on, I wouldn’t make you wait a week. But I _guess_ I might have enough in the bank right now to have a little bit of fun. We can go get blitzed on the finest mixed drinks forty five bucks can buy!”

 

“Yeah, alright. I gotta go get my bag though.”

 

“You better not just be saying that because you don’t wanna back down,” Wade says, absentmindedly checking to see if the client’s texted back yet, “I’ve been out of high school long enough that it’d just be pathetic to be stood up by a boy who says he’s gonna get his backpack and he’ll be _right_ back.”

 

The competition just stops at the door to look back and roll his eyes. But he’s wearing gloves, all black just like the rest of his get-up, which means he’s at least a little bit of a smart cookie. You know what they say! Even one fingerprint gets you twenty to life!

 

But he almost forgot the most important thing, “And you need to give me back my gun. No drinks for people who take my guns.”

 

“Dead people don’t need guns, dumbass.”

 

“Yeah, but I’m not dead, am I?” He points over at the competition, “Huh, huh, gotcha there, didn’t I?”

 

“Yeah,” the rookie deadpans, “You got me.”

 

He's got to admit that having the last word feels GREAT. He’s always liked it, which sure hasn’t earned him any friends but sometimes you just have to be petty.

 

Anyway, he waits around for a while, still checking his phone every now and again. How hard can it be to get back to your murderer for hire? It’s common courtesy to let someone know that you got their message, even if it’s just a picture of a dead body. It’s not like he sent unsolicited dick pics, because he’s NOT a bastard.

 

Now it might just be the fact that the writer for his life is TERRIBLE at pacing things, or it might be the fact that he’s probably at least a little bit ADHD and not in the 2008 ‘OH LOOK A SQUIRREL’ meme way, but it feels like he’s probably been stood up considering how long he’s been standing around.

 

But then the rookie comes back with his bag slung over his shoulder and he’s carrying Baby like it’s perfectly normal to walk down a hotel hallway with a big fucking AR-15 lovingly hand painted eye-bleeding neon pink.

 

“Please don’t tell me anyone saw you. I do NOT want this to go down like the last time I whacked someone off on a vacation island. No Witnesses gets suuuuper messy when there’s hundreds of people around,” he winces at the memory, the hotel hallway looked like an attempt to cash in on a ‘The Shining’ reboot that failed horribly and was swiftly swept under the rug.

 

The rookie rolls his eyes, “Nobody saw me.”

 

“Are you sure about that? Because you’d be pretty hard-pressed to _not_ see that absolute eyesore,” he gestures to Baby, and drops his voice to a stage whisper, “ _Sorry, Baby, but you know it’s true._ ”

 

“In what world is this a fucking eyesore?”

 

Wade’s starting to think he could really like this guy, maybe.

 

And then he changes his mind because the rookie adds, “It’s just kinda muddy, kinda yellow-ish grey-ish. Nobody’s gonna think twice.”

 

“Uh, dude, holy shit,” he can’t stop himself from laughing, so hard he’s almost ready to fall over, “It’s, it’s fucking…. Fucking bright pink.”

 

The rookie raises one eyebrow, sneering like a middle aged woman who just got told her coupon expired yesterday and no, we can’t use it, not even because you’re a regular, “Are you shitting me?”

 

“No, man, it’s neon, hot as fuck, eye-burning pink. Just how I like it.”

 

The rooking looks over the gun again, “Really?”

 

“For realsies. I’m being dead serious right now.”

 

“... _Why?”_

 

“Because I fuckin’ love pink, it’s the 21st century, get over yourself already,” he takes Baby back from the competition, checks her over to make sure everything’s all good, “Now, why don’t we slip out the back door before anyone else sees us, and then we go get blitzed?”

 

* * *

 

The rookie follows him almost all the way back to the shithole motel, which he’s headed to because the bars around it are probably gonna be cheaper than any bar around the floating fucking rich people hotel. Which says he probably trusts Wade, which is really fucking weird and a nice change of pace and good because he's probably one of the few mercs worth trusting.

 

The competition earns some extra brownie points by not asking any questions about the fact that he doesn't take his mask off before going into the bar. There's nothing he hates more than trying to explain that he looks like Freddy fuckin’ Krueger and he's not exactly a fan of that franchise. All he does is pull it up enough to get some fresh air.

 

The rookie stays at a little table; it's concerningly sticky but the only free place to sit in the whole bar. Wade makes a split second judgement and decides he's probably safe enough to leave Baby with while he orders drinks.

 

Every time he goes to a bar, he makes a game out of ordering the cocktail with the stupidest name possible, regardless of how it'll taste. Most of the ones at this bar are tacky, but on theme to the tourist trap schtick, like the surf 'n’ turf (which is apparently a blue bloody Mary with both a strip of steak AND a cocktail shrimp in it) and the 5 o'clock somewhere.

 

He looks back over his shoulder, kind of a nervous habit because he's probably a bit too attached to his guns. The rookie is still there, waving at Wade with the same dissatisfied look. He's starting to think that's just the competition's face.

 

He sure seems to be taking it well!

 

Wade settles on a drink called the wet and wild to Christen in the night. Even if it sucks, he can make up for it with a better drink after. The fact that he's still got cash in his wallet to pay for the drinks just says that the rookie hasn't pick pocketed him.

 

They're bright blue, looks like a glass of fucking Windex, and he almost spills them trying to weave between the drunken Jimmy Buffett types on the fake wood dance floor.

 

“What's that?” The rookie asks when Wade gets back to the table.

 

“The menu said it was called the wet and wild.”

 

The rookie looks the cocktail over and evidently decides _fuck it_ , because he picks it up and downs about half of it. And sets it down. And picks it back up to take another drink. And sets it back down like he's trying to decide if he likes it.

 

So Wade decides it's time to try it. He picks up the glass, one pinky out as he takes sip. It _tastes_ like Windex. And sugar. Like an edgy reimagining of Mary Poppins that Reddit just _loses_ it over.

 

“Jesus fuck, how can you drink this?”

 

The rookie knocks back the rest of it, “What?”

 

“It tastes like Mommy and Daddy finally locked the booze up and you're a teen in desperate need of adult intervention but nobody realizes so you're just downing cough syrup before school, consequences be damned.”

 

“That's awfully specific.”

 

“And who are _you?”_ Wade rolls his eyes, “My fucking therapist?”

 

But, honestly, he should probably give her a call. It's been a while.

 

Wade doesn't want to be the one to just _not_ finish the terrible drink now that the rookie's drank it all, so he slams the rest of it.

 

“Well,” he grimaces, “It's certainly wet and I'd say it'd get people who can get drunk pretty wild.”

 

The rookie raises one eyebrow, “You can't get drunk?”

 

“Nope. I was cursed by a witch. Now I'm immune. Now let's get an actually _good_ drink.”

 

The rookie stays at the table again, which is nice because he's pretty sure he got a little bit too real there. Vulnerability WITHOUT scaring people off, that's the key.

 

Anyway, he comes back with two more cocktails. This one sounds a little more palatable than the last one and it's cold, which is exactly what he needs before he starts to bake alive in his super duper suit.

 

The rookie just sort of slowly sips at this one and Wade's starting to think that maybe he _likes_ the taste of straight alcohol. But he's _here_ which must mean he's at least enjoying himself.

 

“Soooooo,” Wade leans over the table, twirling the cocktail umbrella around his gloved finger, “How long have you been in the business?”

 

“Uhhh,” the rookie pauses to count on his fingers, “Ten, maybe eleven years.”

 

“No fucking way are you older than me, so you're either lying or you started wayyyy too young. Did you go all Britney Spears? Amanda Bynes?”

 

The rookie gives him a blank look, “What the fuck does that mean?”

 

“You know, child actor snaps and goes off the deep end?”

 

The rookie looks like he’s starting to put two and two together, “You mean like Corey Haim?”

 

“Fuck, man, maybe you _are_ old. Uh,” Wade winces just a little bit, “Not exactly?”

 

“Well, I _did_ kill my dad when I was fourteen. I dunno if that counts.”

 

“Well, it sure doesn’t make you Corey Haim…”

 

He’d be lying if he said he had any idea how to process that information and he’s deathly allergic to being serious, so he has to make a joke if he wants to make it through the night. The competition really isn’t that talkative, at least not compared to himself; whenever there’s a lull in the conversation, he just goes back to working at his drink. Which is a little bit weird because he downed the first drink like his life depended on it, but now he’s almost just playing with it.

 

* * *

 

Wade’s on his fourth cocktail by now and he’s glad the rookie isn’t taking advantage of the free booze because his wallet is basically empty, but it’s still weird that he’s making the one drink last a suspiciously long time. Since when are guns for hire courteous enough to not take advantage of free drinks?

 

He’s not drunk, he just likes the taste of stupidly sweet mixed drinks. Which sounds like what every alcoholic tells themself, but it really really doesn’t count in his case. The rookie, however, seems to be a little bit tipsy; keeps picking up his drink to take a sip, then setting it back down, creating a chain of wet rings on the table-top. There’s shitty paper coasters on the table, but he seems to be completely ignoring them.

 

“What’s with,” Wade gestures to the table, “All that?”

 

“Oh, uh...”

 

The competition rubs at the back of his neck, not quite meeting Wade’s eyes. He looks bashful and shy and downright, absolutely, fucking cute. So cute he can’t even finish the half baked joke rolling around in his head about him looking like a… Uh… Well, nevermind…

 

“I just like them, y’know.”

 

“Yeaaaaaah,” he says, barely even aware he’s saying anything because he is, for all intents and purposes, the girl in a 90s coming of age movie who doesn’t hear anything over the swell of alt-rock when she sees the love interest in the hallway, “I mean, I don’t know but it’s cool. You’re cool.”

 

There’s gotta be something in the air, or the universe needs a good laugh, or he’s actually fucking drunk and just doesn’t know it. Literally nothing good comes from thinking other mercs are _cute._ That’s how you get stabbed in the back, metaphorically and literally.

 

And he’s missing out on half the one-sided conversation having an internal monologue, but he tunes back in right around the part where the competition goes, “Howsabout we go back to your place for a nightcap?”

 

“Uh-huh, that sounds greaaaat,” he sounds even more stupid and out of it than usual.

 

He knows where this is headed and it’s either going to end with him getting “ _stabbed_ ” in the sexy way or stabbed in the ‘bleeding out in a motel room’ way, but he still goes along with it. And he’s kind of mindlessly chattering the whole way back to the motel, he really honestly, swear to god, could not tell you anything that he’s actually talking about. It feels like he’s talking about Predator, or maybe Corey Haim, or maybe he’s just walking along without saying anything at all.

 

“You talk _a lot,”_ the competition speaks up and it snaps him out of whatever narrative device his brain is deciding to play around with.

 

“Yeah, it’s my character flaw. But I hope it’s just quirky and fun most days instead of, like, actually annoying and used as evidence for why I’m a boring character with a stupid gimmick.”

 

“I… Don’t know what any of that means.”

 

“Don’t worry, it’s fine, everything’s fine. I just can’t shut up tonight,” he laughs nervously, and really really wishes he wasn’t cursed to be the comic relief character.

 

“Okay,” the rookie doesn’t press it further, which is nice, “Do you know where we’re going? Because I’ve just been walking us in circles and waiting for you to tell me where to turn.”

 

“God, I’m so fucking stupid,” Wade buries his head in his hands, “I think my brain is melting and I _know_ it’s not the cocktail that went down like draino because I can’t get drunk.”

 

And then the competition rests a hand on his back, really, really awkwardly. Like he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing, which is good because if he was actually acting sincere and normal, Wade might just give up and die.

 

Fuck, maybe he’s trying to kill him again. Maybe the drink was spiked or maybe the competition’s just trying to make him die of embarrassment.

 

“I wouldn’t spike your drink,” the competition says, which means he’s completely forgone the brain to mouth filter and the line between narration and dialogue is starting to become nonexistent, “That’s _not_ my style.”

 

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” Wade musters up the dramatic energy for a fake sob, “Look at me, I'm breaking narrative conventions.”

 

“Just settle down,” the competition doesn't exactly sound soft, but he's trying and that's got to count for something, “Retrace your steps.”

 

He decides he needs to snap out of this right now. So he does, kind of. He's really just bottling up all his feelings in the emotional equivalent of a faulty pressure cooker bomb made in a dorm room at MIT. It's gonna blow up in everyone's faces one day but for now it looks just like it's supposed to.

 

“Okay!” He cracks his knuckles like a cartoon character about to play the piano, “Retracing steps! Let's do this!”

 

It takes a minute to get his bearings, but the rookie was right. They've just been walking in circles around the bar. Maybe his brain didn't grow back right and that's why he's feeling like this.

 

“Okay, I think I've got it now, we head back this way,” he points off towards the sketchier side of the vacation sector, “I'm not usually like this, I promise.”

 

“It's fine,” the rookie says, “Don't worry about it.”

 

He sounds like he actually means it, not like the people who think he's stupid, not _crazy_ , and can't tell that they're really saying 'it's fine as long as you're not _contagious,_ don't worry about it but _stay the hell away from me._ ’ But that's the thing, isn't it? Back in the first act the competition thought he was a _hallucination_.

 

“No, really, I think my brain grew back wrong,” he laughs, because he's deathly allergic to sincerity.

 

The competition frowns, worrying at his lip just a bit, “Are you sure you're not drunk?”

 

“Nope, I really can't get drunk, not unless it's plot relevant or funny and this sure as shit is NOT funny.”

 

But his head _is_ feeling clearer, like he's metabolizing whatever's got him so fucked up.

 

“Come on, let's go. This was just the scenic route,” Wade heads off towards what he _hopes_ is the right direction.

 

* * *

 

They do actually make it back to the hotel. It's not a quest of epic proportions, but it's a fucking journey to get there.

 

He stops outside of it and actually takes a minute to put his hand over his heart and say, “Oh thank _God,_ we made it.”

 

And then the rookie touches him again, just a hand on his shoulder but he gets the feeling that the competition isn't exactly the touchy feely type. And then the hand starts travelling up his shoulder, to his neck, thumbing over his jaw which is when he realizes, oh fuck, I didn't pull the mask down.

 

The rookie hooks his fingers under the mask and he knows what's going to happen but it still doesn't feel real, it's happening in slow motion. He literally never shuts up but he can't seem to say anything.

 

“No, no, don't do that,” he only manages it after the competition's already started to take it off.

 

The rookie pulls back right away which already makes him better than half the people Wade's let get near him and he lets himself relax a bit. And the part that really stings is the voice in his head saying that if he kept his mouth shut, he probably would've been kissed. Maybe that's a bit generous of a concept because the competition would've seen his face by that point.

 

“What's your name?” Wade says, no jokes, no self sabotage, just a question.

 

“It's not important.”

 

“It is to _me,”_ there's the joke, he can't go long without one.

 

And then the rookie kisses him anyway. He still hasn't pulled his mask all the way down and the rookie has a hand on the back of Wade's neck and it's really really soft. It's the kind of kiss you get at the end of the night after a date to the sock hop and he fucking loves it.

 

He doesn’t want it to end, they can just awkwardly stay there being the annoying PDA couple in the high school hallway except they’re right in the middle of the street. But it doesn’t last forever, because the rookie pulls back. He’s still resting his hand against Wade’s neck, still close enough that Wade’s laser focused on how stupidly beautifully blue the competition’s eyes are.

 

“Upstairs,” he blurts out, brain completely short-circuiting, “We should go. There.”

 

“Yeah?” The competition laughs, kind of a half smile.

 

“Yeah,” his brain finally catches up to his body and he awkwardly starts off towards the staircase to the second floor of the motel, “It’s, uh, it’s this way.”

 

The rookie follows after him, obviously still interested in whatever this is. It’s the best genre shift he could’ve had, the kind he never really gets. His heart’s ready to beat out of his chest, like he’s ready for a romcom style tasteful fade to black sex scene, like he’s the kind of person to use the phrase ‘heavy petting’.

 

He fumbles with the room key a few times, an ACTUAL key, not just a keycard, and all he can think about is if he’s this bad off, it’s gonna be a BITCH to get out of the super duper suit. Which gets him thinking that the room looks like the fucking Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles live there what with all the boxes of takeout he hasn’t cleaned up. And there’s blood on the sheets from when he was coming back to life. All in all, a sexy time his motel room does not make.

 

“We should go back to your room,” he hopes it doesn’t ruin things, especially since he’s already got the door unlocked.

 

“ _Why_?” The competition gives him a look like ‘how bad can it be?’.

 

“Okay, I mean, I guess it’s fine but it looks like Eric’s basement from That 70’s Show if he did hard drugs instead of just smoking pot all the time, or maybe the Brady Bunch if it wasn’t the 70s and the parents decided the kids were a lost cause--”

 

The competition cuts him off by kissing him again, which is usually a shitty trope but he’s so weirdly perfectly okay with it. He can even feel the competition smiling against his lips, which is another stupid cliche but apparently this is just his life now. And he’s so fucking lost in all of this that he’s backed into the door and they’re already part way into the motel room.

 

The rookie breaks away for a second to close the door, lock it, and then check that it’s really locked like three times. Then, he sets his bag down by the door and takes his shoes off like he fucking lives here.

 

“So, uh, what now?” Wade asks, even though he’s already got a pretty good idea of what the whole situation is and where it’s heading.

 

The competition gets right up in his face, staring like he’s five minutes out from an exam, Wade’s a textbook he’s just opened for the first time, and he’s trying to decide if a master's degree is actually worth it, “I could kiss you again.”

 

“Yeah, you could.”

 

The competition rests his hands against the back of Wade’s neck, thumbs tracing over his jawline; this time Wade’s calmed down enough to notice that he’s still wearing the gloves and he should not be as into that fact as he is. Maybe he has a type, but you’ll have to catch him before you can make him admit it.

 

“You ever snap somebody’s neck?”

 

He’s not sure why he asks it, and he’s super extra not sure why he says it in the dumb lovestruck voice he’s been using all night.

 

The rookie looks at least a little bit taken aback, head cocked to the side, “Do… Do you _want_ me to snap your neck?”

 

“No, I just… My brain is so fucking broken, man.”

 

The competition gives a short, solemn nod at that.

 

But he lets go of Wade’s neck afterwards, which is really genuinely disappointing because it makes him feel like he fucked everything up. He doesn’t have too long to wallow in self-pity, though, because the rookie straight up fucking collapses.

 

It feels like everything’s in slow motion, one second he’s feeling bad about being a mood killer just by existing, the next second he realizes that the competition is careening towards an impact zone of suspiciously stained shag carpeting.

 

“I should probably catch him,” he says, cue laugh track.

 

And then he does. The rookie is down for the count, limp in his arms and not even awake enough to appreciate the perfect Dirty Dancing style dip they both managed to pull off. He’s weirdly heavy for how wiry he looks, but Wade’s not the type to make any jackass comments about people’s weight.

 

The next step is trying to get the rookie lying down somewhere but it’s hard to pick him up in any maneuverable way from this position. It doesn’t help that he’s gangly and seems to be part liquid, like longcat.

 

But he gets the competition picked up and settled onto the couch, somehow. It’s not a particularly nice couch, but it doesn’t have bed-bugs so it’ll do. He’d throw a blanket over the rookie, but the AC is busted and the motel room is hot as hell as it is.

 

The stupid, evil, paranoid voice at the back of his mind is trying to screw him over again, making him think that maybe his super cancer went airborne and now the rookie’s irradiated in the ‘death’ way instead of the ‘sick new super powers’ way. The chances of that happening would be slim to none in a perfect world, but at this point, who fucking knows what the universe has in store for him.

 

The competition _looks_ okay, as okay as someone who just fainted can look. That’s probably a doctor situation, since he’s pretty sure the competition doesn’t have super healing. But he’ll let the competition sleep for a while and if he’s out like a light for too long, Wade’ll get him some help.

 

It’s been a weird day, not exactly a good one, and he still hasn’t gotten his paycheck. There’s not much that he can do, now, since his hookup just collapsed. So, he strips down to his rainbow print skivvies and flops into bed.

 

* * *

 

He’s in a dead sleep when his phone goes off at max volume, scaring the shit out of him.

 

_WOOOAH HERE SHE COMES, WATCH OUT BOY SHE’LL CHEW YOU UP!_

 

_WOOOAH HERE SHE COMES, SHE’S A MANNNNNEATERRRR!_

 

He slaps around the bedside table, looking for it with his monkey brain instead of his human brain, face still buried in the pillow. But then he remembers it’s probably still in his pants, which are on the floor beside the bed and that means he’s gonna have to get up.

 

So he rolls out of bed, starts frantically digging through pouches and hoping that the rookie doesn’t wake up to find him kneeling on the shag carpet in only rainbow print skivvies trying to stop an onslaught of Hall & Oates at 6am. Eventually, he gives up and just starts shaking out the suit until the phone falls out, landing perfectly screen up to show that there’s an incoming phone call from ‘Murder Soccer Mom #3’.

 

Wade picks it up and answers, hoping he doesn’t sound winded, “Yello, did you like my special pictures? You can’t tell but I’m winking right now.”

 

“Good job!” She says, with all the charisma of a woman tasting inferior cookies at the middle school bake sale, “Now why don’t you be a peach and take care of this little hiccup for me!”

 

“No freebies, I whacked your husband off and that’s all we agreed on.”

 

“Well,” there’s a little crack in her voice that makes it sound like she’s about to ask for the manager, “I’m sure you’ve got personal reasons to want to take out the little _inconvenience_ asleep on the couch, but we can double your pay if you need a little incentive.”

 

Strange things are afoot in the Barbados, and they seem to be decidedly un-excellent. There’s no reason a run of the mill client should know who’s in his motel room.

 

“Hold up a second there, you crazy cougar, I’ve seen enough of the Saw franchise to know that you never play games like this. Someone’s gonna get left behind in a tetanus trap bathroom and it’s NOT gonna be me.”

 

“You don’t understand, Wade. Let me put it in a way you can comprehend: this round is double or nothing.”

 

“Fuuuuuck that. At least buy me dinner before you screw me like this.”

 

At this point, he has the phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, packing his suitcase as fast as he can. There’s a good chance things are going to get completely befuckened, since whoever this soccer mom _really_ is knows exactly what’s going on in his room. He’s got firepower to deal with it, which is why he hasn’t tried to wake up the competition yet.

 

“You’re making a mistake. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for you.”

 

“Not trying to be a douche, but I really don’t care. Byeeee,” he hangs up.

 

Wade pulls on a pair of sweats and a shirt he didn’t even know he had in his bag. He thinks for a second, then puts the mask on as well. The rookie’s still asleep and they aren’t quite at ‘being allowed to see my face’ levels of intimacy yet, so mask it is!

 

He’s taking one for the team, really, being the only one who’s morning is ruined by getting forced into Jeopardy Without Limits. But that’s pretty par for the course with a job like this; sometimes the clients can and will try to kill you if you don’t do exactly what they ask for. Still, he wants to make sure that the rookie is in good enough condition to go if something goes majorly wrong.

 

Which is why he ends up standing at the end of the couch, stage-whispering, “Hey, hey, rise and shine.”

 

The rookie stirs just slightly and next thing Wade knows, he’s sidestepping a coaster en route to his brain.

 

“Woah there, sleepyhead! Hasn’t anyone told you that it’s rude to kill the host?”

 

The competition’s eyes are still closed and he groans before burying his face in the side of the couch.

 

“I get it, I’m not a morning person either, but I think someone’s got it out for you.”

 

That gets the rookie interested; he sits up, digging his palms into his eyes, “Lotsa people do.”

 

“Fair enough,” Wade shrugs, “But this one’s a Right Now situation. As in, someone’s got it out for you in the near future.”

 

The conversation’s cut short by the sound of a phone vibrating. The rookie scrubs at his eyes, then digs an absolute dinosaur of a Blackberry out of his pants.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Wade can’t hear the conversation on the other side, so he settles for just imagining it.

 

_We need you for another mission, one last job and then you’re out._

 

“Uh-huh,” the rookie mumbles.

 

_It’ll pay enough to keep you out of the business forever, we’re absolutely not setting you up._

 

“Got it.”

 

The competition hangs up, yawns, and gets to his feet. Then, he reaches high up over his head and bends backwards an incredibly impressive amount. He straightens up, pops both his arms, joints sounding like fucking rice krispies.

 

“Someone wants you dead.”

 

Wade rolls his eyes, “Let me guess, client offered you double or nothing?”

 

The rookie still looks half asleep, eyes half lidded, “Yeah. Gotta kill you.”

 

“And what are you gonna do?”

 

“Gonna kill you, duh,” the competition yawns again.

 

“Woah there,” Wade takes a step back, “Did last night mean nothing to you? I thought we _had_ something! I thought there was a spark!”

 

He’s not exactly worried, he’ll get better no matter what and he can probably go toe to toe with gangly fuck who just fainted less than ten hours ago.

 

“Shhhh,” the competition holds up a finger, “Gonna kill you, get paid, and you get better.”

 

“Okay, I’m gonna stop you right there,” it’s weird that he’s being the rational adult in the room, but someone’s gotta do it, “Are you, like, okay right now? You collapsed almost as soon as we got in the room.”

 

The rookie gives him a blank stare, punctuated by a couple of slow blinks like he doesn’t know the answer himself. He looks more than a little bit like a zombie and Wade’s actually a bit worried.

 

“Didn’t sleep enough when I was working,” he drags his hands down his face, fingers pulling the skin under his eyes down until he looks bug-eyed, “An’ ‘m not ‘sposed to drink. Meds don’t liiiiike it.”

 

“Okayyyy, I’m not gonna give you an after school special on why downing the windex lookalike cocktail was not the best idea because I’m pretty sure you already know that, but I will let you know that _this_ is probably not a good idea.”

 

“Why not?”

 

When it really comes down to it, there isn’t a single good argument _against_ letting the competition kill him. He’ll get better, whoever wants him dead will leave him alone for a while, the worst thing that happens is the rookie robs him but he’s not sure this guy can do much of anything right now.

 

“Well, I can’t argue with that logic.”

 

Wade doesn’t get nervous until the competition goes for his bag, “Uh, how exactly are you planning on killing me?”

 

The competition frowns, like he hasn’t actually thought this whole thing through. Which, to be fair, this whole thing IS pretty spur of the moment. It’s almost funny in a way. They’re scamming some fucker through comedy of errors levels of complicated twists and turns.

 

“What’s easiest to fix?”

 

“Anything that actually factually kills me is gonna take some time to undo, dude.”

 

The rookie frowns, yet again, “How much time?”

 

“Maybe a day? I don’t know?”

 

“Okay,” the rookie says, and promptly throws a knife into his shoulder.

 

“Ow, what the FUCK, warn a guy before doing that!”

 

He gets hit with another right in the heart, which would be really fucking symbolic if he wasn’t starting to go into total organ failure.

 

“Jesus fuck, dude, you shoulda put a tarp down, gonna bleed all over the--”

 

He’s already getting woozy, trying to talk through the constant pump of arterial spray, and then he’s on the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing he does when he comes back to life is jerk upright, clutching at his chest in between doing what sounds like hyperventilating. His heart is still in there, he can feel it, but there’s this weird phantom ache like he was the human sacrifice in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

 

He’s still wearing the mask, but his sweats and tee are both completely ruined with blood. The carpet’s a mess, too, and he almost feels bad about it but now they’ve got a reason to get some new carpet because, uh, the 70’s called and they want their fucking shag carpet back.

 

Weirdest of all: the rookie is still here, asleep on the couch again, like Wade just got Groundhog Day’d back to right after the competition fainted in the middle of foreplay. It doesn’t seem like he’s in a coma this time around, though, because he sits up not long after Wade finally stops hyperventilating.

 

There aren’t any knives stuck in him anymore, which is a small blessing, but something still seems… _Off._

 

“I took a hand,” the rookie still has blood flecked on his face, probably has it on his clothes too but he’s in all black so it’s hard to tell, “Gonna mail it to the client. I figure opening up a rotting hand in the morning mail would piss her off.”

 

Sure enough, his left hand is in the process of regrowing, which isn’t something he usually wakes up to but still doesn’t make the list of the _worst_ things he’s woken up to.

 

“In the wise words of Shakira, you’re crazy, but I like it,” he pauses a second before adding the ‘ _loca’_ s under his breath, “Anyway, you sound better.”

 

“Yeah, I slept all day.”

 

“Sounds relaxing. Which, for the record, being dead is _not_ actually relaxing.”

 

The rookie comes over and helps him up to his feet, but he doesn’t let go right away. No, he just holds onto Wade’s good arm and looks at him like he’s considering something.

 

“I’d kiss you,” Wade says, “If you didn’t just kill me, a second time.”

 

“That was hours ago,” the rookie frowns.

 

“Didn’t feel like hours ago for me. It’s, like, a smash cut between scenes.”

 

“I,” the competition looks like the cat that ate the canary, “I really just needed a place to spend the night, because I was fucking tired of sleeping in the rafters and banking on being able to go sleep for three days straight in a hotel after getting paid. And I’ve been paid now, so…”

 

“You used me?!” Wade gasps, because it feels like he should do it more than him being actually upset, “I can’t _believe_ it!”

 

The competition actually looks a little bit nervous, like he didn’t just kill Wade this morning. It feels like a bad time to ask about whether or not he’s getting a cut of the pay, since he literally died for this money. But he can bring that up later.

 

Instead, he laughs, “You’re lucky you’re cute. I really can’t stay mad at you!”

 

He’s a little bit hurt that none of it was real, though. Serves him right for getting his hopes up. Fuck trying to make meaningful connections, he’s going back to the hookups only life. Not that this wasn’t an attempt at a hookup, but it’s different when you meet face to face instead of sexting until you get down to the actual act. But he’s got a persona to keep up, so he keeps on smiling.

 

“You’re really nice,” the competition says, “Like, _really,_ nice.”

 

“Yeah,” Wade realizes midway through opening his mouth that’s really hard to sound like he’s not disappointed, “And I guess this is it.”

 

“You could come to the hotel with me. If you wanted.”

 

It’s a complete and utter lightbulb moment. The competition wants him to come along and this is as close to asking as he’ll get.

 

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

 

The competition lets go of his arm, fingers trailing over his skin to really drag it out. He slings his bag over one shoulder and throws open the sliding door to the balcony, letting the night air in.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“The less people that see us, the better.”

 

“Yeah,” Wade says, “I get that, but I’m covered in blood either way.”

 

“So change,” the rookie’s already sitting on the edge of the balcony, ready to jump down, “But be quick.”

 

Normally, he wouldn’t feel this awkward about getting undressed in front of someone, which is so utterly embarrassing because the competition isn’t even looking at him. He pulls off the sweats and the tee and just throws them on the ground. His bag is all packed and the only other clothes he has are the stupid ‘suns out guns out’ tank and the shorts.

 

He wheels the suitcase out to the balcony and can’t help but laughing at the comedy of the situation, “Ready to go.”

 

Then the rookie twists back and kisses him, just once, so quick it barely even sinks in, “Cool. Try to keep up, okay?”

 

And he drops off the edge of the balcony. It’s alright because he lands perfectly, like a cat, and waits on the sidewalk, looking up at Wade.

 

“That was impressive,” Wade yells down from the balcony, “But I don’t think I can do that!”

 

“That’s okay,” the rookie yells back up.

 

So instead, he takes the walk of shame and slips back out onto the outdoor hallway and down to the ground floor, dragging his child sized Hello Kitty suitcase behind him. And the competition must be serious about this whole ‘inviting him back to his hotel room’ thing because he’s still waiting around for Wade.

 

* * *

 

They don’t end up checking into the fancy floating hotel, mostly because there’s a body tied back to them there and they’ve BOTH been seen by eyewitnesses. Which is a bit of a downer because unfortunately, crimes do get solved sometimes. But they do end up in a nicer hotel than the motel he spent the week in, which was easily one of the WORST motels he’s ever died in.

 

The rookie pays for the room while he waits awkwardly in the lobby, out of sight of the concierge’s desk like someone who didn’t get the memo that the party WASN’T a costume party because he hasn’t taken the mask off and he doesn’t intend to do so anytime soon. Okay, so maybe he _does_ have issues.

 

But whatever issues he does or does not have aren’t really all that important because he still ends up in the elevator with the competition and that makes him at least a little bit giddy. He really hasn’t been this excited about anything in awhile, no matter what his hyperactive disposition seems to suggest.

 

“So, take two?” He asks, even though he knows he should really wait until they’re out of the elevator to initiate another makeout sesh.

 

“Yeah, I guess.”

 

“Try not to faint this time, dude.”

 

“Yeah,” the rookie sounds just a little bit annoyed by the joke, “I’ll try.”

 

“No, really, you had me worried there for a second.”

 

The competition looks a little bit sad and a lot bit surprised. It feels like the heartfelt music should be swelling right now, like this is the scene where they makeout in the rain and pretend it’s not ridiculously cold and uncomfortable because they haven’t seen each other since one of them went to war.

 

But that’s never been his kind of genre, mostly because it hurts a whole hell of a lot more than comedy.

 

It’s the worst kind of cliche, but that’s the only kind of thing his healing factor can’t fix.

 

It’d ruin the moment to make a joke, though, so he keeps his mouth shut and rolls his suitcase back and forth. And then the elevator dings, stopping on their floor. He really fucking hates when everything seems to take forever; tension’s good sometimes but it’s only fun if you’re in the audience.

 

When they get in the hotel room, he decides it’s his turn to kiss the competition. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit out of practice when it comes to just plain ol’ fashioned kissing as opposed to trying to shove your tongue down someone’s throat in the throes of passion. But he’s not living a poorly written erotica, no matter what his past few one night stands might lead you to believe.

 

So he ends up cupping the rookie’s face in his hands, (HANDS!! The universe decided it owed him one and actually let him have both hands functional for a makeout sesh!!), for a solid 30 seconds trying to hype himself up to go in for the kill. It’s pathetic, but he’s hoping it’s not so pathetic that it isn’t endearing. And the rookie isn’t saying anything, which is either a blessing or a curse because he’s just looking up at Wade with those freaky blue eyes.

 

“Your eyes are _so_ weird,” he mumbles before he realizes that’s probably not a good thing to say to someone you’re about to play tonsil hockey with, “Like, they’re so fucking blue but you’ve got this weird darker ring around the outside. But it’s, like, kinda sexy, I will admit. In an industrial goth wearing demon eye contacts kinda way, but that’s a good thing.”

 

The competition furrows his brows, “I’m not wearing contacts.”

 

“Oh, fuck, that’s even hotter. Your eyes are just like that?”

 

“Are you just gonna hold my face all night, or?”

 

Wade’s monkey brain takes over and he finds himself squishing the competition’s cheeks before he even knows he’s doing it. But the rookie seems to be okay with it because he just closes his eyes and smiles, just a little bit.

 

“I swear I know how to have a hookup,” Wade adds, quickly.

 

The competition doesn’t open his eyes, “If you keep doing this, I’m gonna fall asleep.”

 

So Wade stops, because it’s now or never, because if the competition falls asleep on him again, he might just realize that this isn’t worth it.

 

And there’s nothing left to lose, so he just goes for it.

 

Maybe it should be a ‘tongues battling for dominance’ moment, but it’s not. There’s nothing battle-y about it. Nope, the rookie just kind of tilts his head like he’s looking for a good angle, hands moving down to Wade’s hips. And then the rookie opens his mouth, just a little bit, and Wade realizes he is in T-R-O-U-B-L-E. He can already hear the wise voice of Phil Collins crooning, _you know I_ _love you but I just can’t take this, you know I want to but I’m in too deep._

 

And the fact that his brain is using the L-word means he’s already well and truly fucked and NOT in the fun sexy way he’s hoping he’ll get to eventually. And the scary thing is, instead of boning down being the goal of the night, it just feels like it’d be an extra bonus to doing this. He really just needs to go on autopilot and enjoy this while it lasts and not worry about love or boning down or Phil Collins or really anything other than the guy he’s frenching.

 

But the guy he’s frenching pulls away, not far because he ends up resting his forehead against Wade’s as he says, “Some people have to breathe, dumbass.”

 

“Breathing’s overrated.”

 

“I thought you didn’t want me to faint this time,” the competition laughs.

 

“You got me there.”

 

It’s probably creepy that he actually does pause for a little while, just to stay right there, foreheads touching, mask to stupid black beanie, listening to the competition breathing. It’s really nice and probably way more intimate than fucking ever could be. And he’s already in way over his head and completely off the deep end, so he pulls back a little bit. Not enough that it seems like he’s not into this, but enough that he can get his hands under the mask.

 

Then, he takes a deep breath and pulls it off. It’s such an easy thing to do even if it feels like the end of the fucking world emotionally.

 

The competition doesn’t react much at all, which is honestly refreshing, but that doesn’t stop Wade from asking, “Is this okay?”

 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

 

“It’s okay even though I look like the fucked up guy at the end of Robocop?”

 

“Do you think we’d be here if it wasn’t?” The rookie’s tracing circles on the small of his back, which is REALLY doing something to him in all the best ways.

 

Wade leans forward until he bonks his forehead against the rookie’s again, “I guess not.”

 

“You guessed right.”

 

“You’re pretty special,” he says, “I don’t just take my mask off for anyone, you know.”

 

“My name’s Bullseye,” the rookie says it quietly, like it’s a secret, “You wanted to know, you said it was important.”

 

Just once, he wishes his brain to mouth filter was functional, “Hold up a second, can we rewind that part there a bit? You’re _Bullseye?_ Like, _Master Assassin_ Bullseye?”

 

“I’m the only Bullseye there is,” there’s a dark look in his eye, very hardened war hero-esque, “I made sure of that.”

 

“What about--”

 

“Lady Bullseye doesn’t count. Because she’s a Lady,” Bullseye adds quickly, like he already knew what Wade was going to ask.

 

“Okay, good to know! But, what’s someone like you doing on a job like this?”

 

Bullseye raises an eyebrow, “Is that a pick-up line? Because you’re already in my hotel room…”

 

“It’s a serious question! This has to be a walk in the park for you, like Ina Garten taking a cooking 101 class!”

 

“Why does anyone do anything?” Bullseye looks like it’s the stupidest question in the world, “I do it for the thrill of the kill.”

 

It’s about what Wade would’ve expected coming from _Bullseye,_ Master Assassin, if they weren’t just gently holding onto each other a few seconds ago.

 

“Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with you. It’s fun, sometimes, real fun. But mostly, I just need money.”

 

“Which you now have _a lot_ of, courtesy of that stupid Double Jeopardy game we got roped into,” Wade scowls, he really does hate it when people decide to stab him in the back, both literally and figuratively.

 

“And you want a cut, right? That’s what all this is about.”

 

Well, isn’t it just trust issues central up in here? Maybe that’s why this has been working out so well so far; they’re both more fucked up than a sorority party on spring break.

 

“Can we go back to the making out?” Wade thinks he finally gets the real meaning of ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’, “I think I liked that a lot more than this.”

 

Bullseye kind of frowns, like he really wasn't thinking Wade would be as into this as he is, “Stop changing the subject.”

 

“Fine!” Wade groans, “Apparently ad-lib isn't allowed in this soap opera!”

 

“You're not getting a cut.”

 

“I _know_ that! You don't have to spell it out for the viewers at home!”

 

“Jesus Christ, can you just listen to me?” Bullseye pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, like a haggard professor minus the Coke bottle glasses, “When I say I need money, I'm _not_ kidding. Half my accounts are frozen at any given time, I'm held together by spit and bailing wire which means lots of bills, and I'm moderately homeless.”

 

Wade furrows his brows, head cocked to the side, “Wait…. Only _moderately?”_

 

“Sometimes employers give me apartments, usually only long term gigs.”

 

“And the rest of the time?”

 

Bullseye gives a very unencouraging shrug, the kind which makes Wade think he really doesn't want to know the answer.

 

“Okay then! You could've just led with that because, like, I'm not here to _rob_ you. That's a dick move. I'd never steal from someone I've almost sort of maybe hooked up with!”

 

That's at least a little bit of a lie but hey, he's an unreliable narrator at best.

 

Wade sighs, looking down at the floor because he’d shrivel up and die if he was earnest AND looking right at Bullseye, “You didn’t just leave me there after you killed me, dude, you stayed around and waited for me to wake up. That’s, like, a big fucking deal. If you need all the money from this job, I’m not gonna fight you over it, really.”

 

And Bullseye kind of relaxes a bit. Wade hadn’t even noticed that he’d gotten all tensed up, like a kid who just realized he lost the round of punch buggy and it’s only a few seconds before his asshole older brother is gonna deck him. It’s really really weird to realize, but this is the most serious he’s ever gotten pre- or post-hookup.

 

“Okay,” Bullseye pauses and then he says it again like maybe Wade didn’t hear him the first time, “Okay, okay.”

 

“So what now?” Wade says, desperately wanting to get out of the Danger Zone, aka the Serious Talks Zone, “Because even if we don’t end up doing the hanky panky, I was kind of hoping we could go hog fucking wild with room service tomorrow morning, like we’re Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone 2.”

 

“Yeah, that sounds… Fun, actually.”

 

“Trust me, it _is_ fun. Nothing quite like living out the unfulfilled dreams of a kid with no parental supervision in a fancy hotel.”

 

He’d add something about how there’s nothing quite like fucking on a $500 a night hotel room bed, either, but that feels like it’s going too far after what just happened. Which is weird, because he’s usually a pretty fast/loose/easy lover regardless of circumstances but he’s also been describing this whole situation with sock-hop and teen coming of age movie metaphors all night long.

 

“I like you,” Bullseye laughs.

 

“Well, I sure hope you do, considering how you just caused my brain to short circuit and start playing Phil Collins songs mid-makeout sesh.”

 

“Fuck, man, I don’t like _anyone,”_ the tone in his voice says he really truly means it, “But I _like_ you.”

 

“Awww, I like you too, B,” Wade really hopes they’re on nickname terms already, he knows they’re not on petname terms but he really wants this to be okay, “Minus getting killed by you twice, this is the most fun I’ve had without taking my clothes off since I got kicked out of college.”

 

“You know, I was kicked out of college, too. Damn near killed one of my teammates,” the way he says it makes it sound like they’re the kind of people who just make small talk, which isn’t helped by the fact that he rolls his eyes, “That’s why you don’t try to take _my_ place.”

 

“Oh my god,” Wade gasps and covers his mouth, “You Tonya Harding’d someone.”

 

“You can’t prove that.”

 

“Neither can Nancy Kerrigan!”

 

Every time he makes Bullseye laugh, it feels like a win. And this has to be a fucking world record breaker because Bullseye’s composure completely breaks and he does an absolutely adorable terrible snort-laugh combo.

 

“You know,” Bullseye still hasn’t entirely caught his breath between laughs, “If I didn’t work alone, we could probably be partners.”

 

“There’s other things two people can do together besides murder, dude. Like, _so_ many things. For example,” he trails his fingers over Bullseye’s jaw, just lightly, “Making out, or blowing a shit ton of money on room service and the mini bar in a hotel, or just, like, hanging out together.”

 

Bullseye almost sneers, one eyebrow raised, “You wanna be _friends?”_

 

“If friends are allowed to stick their tongues down each other’s throats, then like, yeah, totally. I would fucking love to be friends.”

 

“Alright,” he still looks a little bit sus, but it’s better than nothing.

 

“Cool, I’ll put my number in your phone, if that’s cool with you.”

 

Bullseye pulls the Blackberry out of his pants pocket and hands it over. There’s no passcode or anything and the letters on the keys are so worn down they aren’t even there. It’s well loved and it’s really fucking endearing but he just can’t _not_ say something.

 

“Wow, is this really your phone?! It’s an absolute dinosaur! You could take it into Antiques Roadshow!”

 

“It’s a perfectly good phone,” Bullseye scowls, “It can call clients and it never gets broken.”

 

“I can _tell,_ dude, 2004 called and it wants its fucking phone back!”

 

“Just give me your phone and stop making fun of my phone before I regret this.”

 

Wade digs out his phone and hands it over, “Are you gonna be able to use a smartphone? Hint number one: take the gloves off because there’s no way they’re touch-screen reactive.”

 

It’s an even exchange because he has a little bit of trouble remembering how to navigate a phone this fucking old. But he puts himself into Bullseye’s extremely, depressingly, empty contacts list under Wade ;) Wilson because he can’t ignore an innuendo/alliteration when the opportunity presents itself.

 

And then he swaps phones with Bullseye. The new contact in his phone is absolutely boring, just ‘bullseye’ in all lowercase.

 

“I am going to absolutely rock your world, dude,” he hits ‘edit contact’, “There are these things called emojis and--”

 

“I know what fucking emojis are,” Bullseye huffs.

 

“--and there’s a bullseye emoji. Which I can put on your contact name.”

 

Wade is so absolutely entirely lost in the sauce; Bullseye’s face actually lights up at that and he’s pretty sure it’s the cutest thing he’s seen all year.

 

“You _can?”_

 

“Yeah, dude, watch this,” he adds the dartboard emoji and a couple black hearts in addition to just ‘bullseye’ in all lowercase.

 

He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t making his heart race just thinking about the fact that he’s swapped numbers with a guy. He really needs to stop watching old Nickelodeon reruns, it’s making him nostalgic for high school despite the fact that high school absolutely fucking sucks. But now they’ve swapped numbers and they can stay up late at night texting each other and giggling at their phone like teens played by 28 year olds in sitcoms seem to do.

 

“Now I can bother you whenever I want to. Any requests for your custom ringtone? Because I was thinking ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ by the one, the only, Pat Benatar.”

 

“You can pick,” Bullseye pockets his Blackberry again, nowhere near as enthusiastic as Wade would’ve liked.

 

“Hit Me With Your Best Shot it is, dude!”

 

“I really do want to sleep,” Bullseye says, yawning to really seal the deal, “Usually crash for a couple of days after a job, but I wouldn’t mind if you were still here when I wake up.”

 

“Of course I’ll be here when you wake up, we’re going full Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone 2 tomorrow, remember?”

 

“Yeah,” he smiles, eyes half closed, “I remember.”

 

“Are we the kind of friends that spoon each other? Because I would really be into that right now,” he’s never been much of a cuddler but he might go into cardiac arrest picturing waking up next to Bullseye, nearly asleep and smiling softly, eyes half lidded in the low sunlight and all those other cliche descriptors.

 

“I mean, we can be. It might surprise you, but I really don’t have that many friends,” Bullseye says, half smiling in a way that says he’s trying to make a joke.

 

“Fuck yeah, friends with benefits it is!”

 

And then he bolts for the bed, landing on it like he’s a kid left home alone for the first time and only just now realizing that no mommy and daddy means no one to yell at him for jumping on the bed. Bullseye isn’t nearly as enthusiastic, which says he’s probably not lying about being tired or he just doesn’t know how to have fun.

 

But he strips down to just his skivvies, which is more than Wade was ever expecting out of this situation, and then he gets into the bed, and then he gets under the covers. He’s weirdly cold for a relatively normal human and he seems to know it enough that he makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh when he presses up against Wade. Jokes on him because he powers through it to grab onto Bullseye and hold him tight.

 

It’s almost scary how well Bullseye fits with his head tucked under Wade’s chin, especially considering how neither of them seem like the type of people who just _do_ things like this.

 

And it’s no fade to black sex scene, but it’s probably one of the best nights he’s ever had.


End file.
